


Ergot

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 17th Century, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Mushrooms, Mysterious Hannibal, apothecary Will Graham, jerking off, murder tableaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20066950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: The village of Wolf Trap is in trouble when travelling apothecary and soothsayer Will Graham returns after two decades away. Madness and murder has everyone gripped by fear, and Reverend Jack Crawford jumps at the chance to enlist Will's help. Will has his own suspicions about who the culprit might be, and an ache in his heart that he's carried with him ever since his first encounter with a mysterious entity twenty years since...When I first set eyes on@TheSeaVoicesstunning art for this AU, it made me cry. It truly is divine. Their concept for the fic was also incredibly exciting and they have been, as always, a joy to collaborate with. Thank you, dear TSV, for being a brilliant beta too!Art and fic created for theHannigram Reverse Bang 2019.





	Ergot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ergot Illustration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057287) by [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices). 

> Ergot is a fungus that grows on rye. For centuries, people ate it believing it to be part of the plant. It has been posited that ergotism was responsible for the symptoms experienced by the accusers in the Salem Witch Trials.

A whisper of noise. Barely audible above the surrusus of tree branches dancing above his head. Or the breeze that twirls coquettishly between them. But it grows gradually more insistent. Tugs at him. Draws his attention from skeletal forms stretched over delicate membranes of green. He blinks, sun-dazed and drowsy. Listens as it takes shape. One syllable, throbbing, soil-rich.

‘Will.’

And the delicate scent of peaches drifts on the air.

_Oh. Oh yes. _‘There you are.’

‘Will.’

‘I need to talk to you. Show yourself to me.’

The vibrations of heavy boots on the dessicated track pluck at his nerves and sever the tentative connection.

‘Mr Graham.’

Another voice. Smooth and authoritarian. Millpond calm. A voice to engender instinctive trust. Will sits up slowly. Scrubs filthy hands across his face. Runs his fingers through tangled curls, pushing them out of his eyes. Returning is always difficult, like pulling roots from clinging earth. Forcing down frustration, he takes a breath.

‘Good morning, Reverend Crawford.’

The reverend, an imposing figure in his black coat and broad collar of starched white linen, takes the sparsely-grassed rise in easy strides. He pauses to look around before hunkering down with an easy smile. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Graham. I trust that you rested your head on a pillow last night. I must tell you that outdoor sleeping is not recommended hereabouts.’ He chuckles lightly. ‘Wolf Trap is so-named for a reason.’

_He wants to appear unthreatening. Helpful. Establish a bond while keeping a watchful eye on the newcomer. Smart. _

And all the more satisfying to confound.

‘I know all about the wolf ravagings and the cullings - and how futile they were. I was born here.’

‘Is that so?’ Will can almost see the recalibration, the rapid reassessment, before Reverend Crawford’s expression relaxes again to geniality. ‘Well, then, your arrival is indeed fortuitous.’

‘We shall see.’

‘You think this a lost cause?

Will surveys the grove, shaded by oak and horse chestnut, patches of sunlight merging with deep shadows to cast a vast net across the forest floor. ‘I think it as troubling a case as I have ever encountered.’

He feels the reverend’s shrewd eyes on him. ‘Yet you came prepared. What you know of these phenomena is more than any physic.’

‘Hmph. Most would call me charlatan for the unorthodoxy of my methods. My dealings with physicians generally preclude inducing visions, Reverend.’

Reverend Crawford huffs a laugh. ‘I admit, when first you explained your seer abilities to me, I was half inclined to think you touched.’

‘But better perhaps, to fight fire with fire?’

‘Precisely.’

_An honest man, who does what he must for the greater good. He doubts me but he will use me to end the suffering. Blunt truth sometimes blunts sensitivity, but better that than practised empathy._

Will nods. ‘We understand each other, I think.’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then I will help you if I can.’

‘And I will keep from your door those who would oppose you.’

The air is now preternaturally still. And although the power of Will’s trance has faded to an echo, still he feels... something._ Someone is watching. Someone is curious. Someone is dangerous. _

_His _someone? The entity he had persuaded himself was mere fancy, until its resurrected voice had roused him from sleep night after night, whispering his name, drawing him back?

Whatever the answer...

‘We should go.’

By tacit agreement, they rise together and start back down the well-trodden path.

‘Mr Graham, I came in search of you this morning because of -’

‘A happening.’

‘Yes.’

‘Murder or madness?’

The reverend shakes his head. ‘All here is madness, Mr Graham. But yes, there has been another death.’

‘I have supplies to gather first.’

‘Do you wish me to wait? I had intended to ride over immediately.’

Will shakes his head. ‘Give me an address and I shall meet you there.’

Reverend Crawford looks at him with curiosity. ‘How long has it been since you left Wolf Trap?’

Will lifts a low-hanging branch, bowed beneath the weight of plump chestnuts, and sets it gently aside. ‘Some twenty years. I was sixteen when my mother died and my father decided to move us on to try his hand at the fishing trade.’

No mention of the tearing pain of loss piled on loss. Parent, home, woods which had been first his playground and then his solace. And _him. _A presence. A voice, conjured from earth and river and wind on a day when Will’s sobs had echoed plaintive around this very grove. ‘Will,’ it had murmured. ‘Will.’ And the very next day, Beaufort Graham had exchanged their homestead for a boat and ripped Will away.

Shifting his thoughts to the now, Will gestures for the reverend to precede him. ‘This latest death makes three?’

‘Three… displays. Nine dead in all. And seventeen afflicted.’ Grim-faced, the reverend strides ahead. ‘I hope with all sincerity that you can help us, Mr Graham. If our numbers continue to decline at the present rate, there will be very little left of our community come wintertide.’

***

‘Mr Stammets, would you happen to have such a thing as a microscope? Mine is broken and I have yet to acquire another.’

Having his instruments and supplies laid out before a stranger’s eyes is oddly exposing. But having a dedicated workspace in which to conduct his investigations is a luxury Will can ill afford to snub.

The physician, an unassuming man of fifty, makes a soft sound of sympathy as he strokes his generous, grey-streaked beard. ‘It must be difficult for you, forever travelling as you are, to ensure a regular replenishment of materials.’ He reaches into a high cupboard and brings out a small, tube-shaped instrument. ‘If you give me a moment, I am certain that I have a case of new slides.’

‘True, equipment such as this is not easily replaced.’ With an awkward nod, Will takes the microscope and sets it down with care on the workbench. ‘But as to the remedies that I sell, they are of my own making. Nature can always be relied upon to provide the raw materials.’

‘And right fascinating your medicines are! I admit to being entirely ignorant of the origins of some of these fungi. You have suspended them in honey?’

As grateful as he is for Mr Stammets’ assistance, Will cannot but feel irritated as the physician peers into the tiny jars. It is, somehow, an intrusion into a part of his life that he shares with no one.

‘Yes,’ he replies shortly. ‘Cultivated from the region in which each particular mushroom grows. Honey makes an excellent preservative.’

‘Of course.’ There is something almost lascivious in Mr Stammets’ gaze. ‘And were any of these specimens taken from the bodies?’

‘Certainly not.’ Without any attempt to disguise his distaste, Will rolls down his sleeves and retrieves his carelessly slung waistcoat, buttoning it haphazardly in his eagerness to leave. ‘If you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Reverend Crawford. When I return, I will be glad to demonstrate the preserving process.’ _If_, he adds silently, _it will keep you from interfering further_.

Bag slung over his shoulder, Will steps out onto the street, giving his tethered grey a consolatory pat as he passes. ‘Next time, Florence.’ Quicker by far to walk across the fields to the homestead which in his youth had belonged to old Mr Harris, but which is now in the hands of a family called Chilton.

An uneasy silence hangs over the sparsely populated marketplace. Not a hint of the focused, frantic bustle that characterises most agricultural villages in late summer. The community has all but gone to ground. The mind sickness has seen to that. Those worst affected have been sequestered in the meeting house with a few brave souls to care for them, though there is precious little to be done unless the cause can be discovered. The rest have been discharged into the care of their families. And all now wait for a cure - and liberty.

Eager to be free of the stultifying atmosphere of this ghost village with its looming clapboard houses, Will veers away from the main thoroughfare. Not with any sense of sentimentality for the place in which he had spent his formative years - Beaufort had been no more gregarious than Will is now, and the family had lived mostly apart from society - but with a keen desire to exchange anonymous dirt roads for clean earth and sweet grasses.

Despite knowing what he is to find at the end of it, he relishes the mile-long hike, sun on his back, spiked gold rippling beneath his fingertips. And he is almost in a good humour by the time he spies three figures in conference beneath a twisted oak on the outer boundary of the Chilton property. One person he recognises as Reverend Crawford. The other two are strangers - a handsome couple, a man and woman clothed in the silks and bows generally considered the preserve of nobility. The woman, fair brows arched in acknowledgement of Will’s arrival, murmurs something to her companion, whose shoulders slump in relief even as his expression assumes an air of hauteur.

‘Mr Graham, thank you for your promptness.’ Reverend Crawford steps forward. ‘Please allow me to introduce to you Mr Frederick Chilton and his good wife, Mistress Bedelia. Mr Chilton, Mistress Chilton, this is Mr Graham.’

‘The reverend tells us that you are a soothsayer, Mr Graham.’ Mistress Chilton’s manner is as cool as her tone.

Will bristles at her barely-veiled scorn. ‘I am an apothecary by trade, but yes, I have the ability to interpret and divine.’

Her lip curls. ‘You claim the ability to foretell the future?’

‘To read the signs of nature.’ Will regards her steadily. ‘I am interested in science, not superstition, Mistress Chilton.’

‘And it is for that reason that I have asked Mr Graham to help us,’ interjects Reverend Crawford. He turns to Will. ‘The latest victim was discovered by Mr Chilton’s tenant farmer just before daybreak.’

‘Prepare yourself, for it is a gruesome spectacle.’ Mr Chilton shudders theatrically. ‘It quite put me off my breakfast.’

_Ah. A buffoon in gentleman’s clothing._

‘Mr Graham knows what to expect.’

Mr Chilton’s eyes widen. ‘You have seen Hobbs and Gideon?’

‘I have.’ _What was left of them._

‘Whoever is responsible for these atrocities must be apprehended, and quickly!’

Reverend Crawford claps a large hand on the quailing landowner’s shoulder. ‘Mr Chilton, I promise to do my best. In the absence of a judge, I have taken it upon myself to direct the investigation.’

‘You have no judge?’ Will rubs his jaw. ‘Can you not send for one from an outlying town?’

‘We did,’ Mistress Chilton informs him crisply. ‘The first two are dead. The third is locked up in the meeting house.’

‘With the Witchfinder,’ adds Mr Chilton.

Will looks at him sharply. ‘There will be no talk of witchcraft while I am here. There is prodigious danger in such superstition.’

‘Really?’ Mr Chilton is all petulance. ‘I gather then that you have not yet spoken to any of the afflicted. The things that they have seen have driven them quite to madness.’

‘In which case, I fail to see how speaking with them would help.’ Out of patience, Will turns to the reverend. ‘I would like to inspect the body alone.’

‘Out of the question,’ blusters Mr Chilton. ‘This is my land. I have every right to be present.’

‘Oh, do be quiet, Frederick,’ clips Mistress Chilton.

Will ignores them both, eyes earnest on Reverend Crawford, who returns his gaze steadily. ‘As I have told you, it is not about _what _I will see; I know that plain enough. It is about _how _I will see it. To be truly effective, my methods require privacy.’

‘What rot,’ snorts Mr Chilton. ‘Reverend, we know nothing of this man. I insist on his being chaperoned at all times.’

‘Why, Mr Chilton, I am touched that my reputation means so much to you.’

‘Alright, enough.’ Drawing Will aside, Reverend Crawford points to a narrow track which appears to wind around the side of the main house. ‘Follow the path down to the barn. We shall wait for you in the main house.’

Another display left on developed land. Whoever the killer is, they seem unconcerned about being tied to a pattern._ Unconcerned. Unafraid. Unseen…_

***

Will’s father had taught him early which mushrooms to harvest and which to avoid.

‘When you take for yourself, be not greedy,’ he had warned. ‘Accept what nature offers, but do not ravage her.’

So Will had been selective, picking from clusters of those he recognised as safe to eat. For hours he would wander beneath the green-veiled sky, entranced by the beauty and variety of the fruiting bodies which adorned bark and earth like ornaments. And there were so many to delight in: pouting caps of garish orange; inky domes with intricate honeycomb patterning; smooth white scallops sprouting from dying oak. And one day, a new design. Delicate, the largest no bigger than the tip of his little finger, golden brown caps atop creamy stems. Beaufort had smiled enigmatically in response to his youthful exclamations of curiosity. ‘I call them dreaming stones. They can carry a soul away and it takes but a handful. Best leave them be until you are of age.’ Dutifully Will had avoided them, unnerved by his father’s comments. Until the day before their departure for the Carolinas, and an argument which had sent him storming from the house. ‘Why must we go? What care I for boats and nets and salt?’ ‘Enough, Will. Would you stay in one place your entire life? Risk brings its own rewards, you shall see.’

_I do not want to see. I do not want to leave._

_Hands thrust into breeches pockets, Will trudges down the familiar path into the wood, allowing the low canopy of trees to envelop him in olive darkness. The air carries the dampness of a recent summer storm, richly fragrant. Soothing. His agitation lessens with every step, and when a slight movement in the undergrowth nearby betrays the presence of a deer, all else is forgotten._

_‘Oh, you beauty.’_

_A stag, brown coat flecked with black, full-grown antlers twisting skywards as large eyes regard him unblinkingly. Slowly, Will crouches low. _

_‘Where is your family?’_

_The stag tosses its head, thick ruff rippling like feathers. _

_‘Yeah. Sometimes alone is better.’_

_The ground is soft, patched with grass, and he settles back, drawing up his knees and resting his chin on them. Doleful, already mourning the loss of this, his special place. The stag moves off and Will’s gaze too wanders, cataloguing all that he will take with him, to be hoarded in the forest of his mind. Bark and bracken, fallen logs moss-furred, even the musky clusters of almond-shaped droppings that hint at the recent presence of a deer herd._

_‘Not so alone after all, huh?’_

_It is then that he spots them, in clumps dotting the length of the pathway. Dozens and dozens, like tiny pebbles on stalks. His father’s dreaming stones. For a moment, Beaufort’s warning words flash clear in his mind, but with a fierce blink he swipes them away, and on rebellious impulse grabs a handful of the delicious-looking domes. He stuffs them into his mouth, begins chewing - and immediately gags at their foul bitterness. Sheer stubbornness alone prevents him from retching, and he draws from his shoulder bag a stolen flask of his father’s ale, taking long pulls to help force the mushrooms down. Still their acrid taste lingers unpleasantly, and tears sting his eyes as he wonders whether perhaps he should have paid heed to his father after all. He lies down on his back, flings his arm across his eyes and gives in to the pent-up misery of weeks, seeping tears quickly becoming a flood. _

_‘Will.’_

_He jerks upright, swiping at his eyes. Nothing. No one. He is alone. And yet… Something is different. The air itself hangs heavy with expectancy. Will thinks unaccountably of a soft peach, ready to burst at the merest press of a fingertip. _

_‘Will.’_

_It seems that the earth beneath him hums with the husky utterance of his name. _

_‘Yes?’ His voice sounds horribly squeaky to his own ears and he winces. Tries again. ‘Who are you?’_

_‘Will.’_

_The ground shivers. Will hiccups. Giggles. _

_‘No. You are not Will. You are something else.’_

_He turns onto his stomach, upper body supported on his elbows. Peers at the scrubbed earth, absently counting the scant blades of grass that pierce the soil, wondering how far down they grow. Each one clinging bravely to the surface, anchored somehow. Whispers, ‘Are you there?’_

_‘Will.’ This time the voice vibrates right through him. _

_‘Are you trying to get inside me?’_

_‘Will.’ _

_A predatory purr. Deep and rich. It draws from him a whimper and he grows inexplicably, shamefully hard. Unlaces his breeches and pushes them down, rubbing his small cock frantically against the unyielding earth. Pants, ‘Is this what you want?’ _

_A low chuckle. _

_Suddenly desperate, Will digs his nails into the ground. Ruts and squirms and whines. ‘Where. Are. You? Let me see you.’_

_A sigh. ‘Will.’ _

_He feels warm breath against his skin. And pulsing pleasure, he comes, spilling white over the ground. ‘Uh-uh.’_

_Rolls over. Runs a hand down his shirt, grass-stained and wrinkled. Rubs his belly with languorous satisfaction. Murmurs, ‘I think I must be dreaming.’_

_A rumble of laughter. Above him, brilliant light picks out every twig, leaf, clawing branch. Dazzling and delineating. He reaches up, spreads his fingers before his eyes, twists his hand this way and that. Tracing the delicate pathways at his wrist, the circular notches of shadowed knuckles. This starfish-shaped thing is attached to him? How absurd. Thinks about connections. Veins pumping water or blood. His seed sinking into fertile earth. _

_He turns his head, ear to the ground once more. ‘Am I? Dreaming?’_

_Then, in the distance, his father’s voice, sharp with concern. ‘Will! Where are you? Where are you, son?’_

_Only one thing to do to disguise his shameful state, and he is scrambling to his feet, pulling up his ruined breeches and running for the lake. Footsteps like thunderclaps, birdsong perforating the air. Exhilaration pumping through his system, he hits the water feet first, gasping and laughing at the crystal shards that rise up all around him before gravity tugs them back down to shatter on the surface. _

_Never has he felt more vital, more alive. Part of something greater than the sum of his being. And unconcerned about the future. Unconcerned. Unafraid._

_Seen._

***

Seventeen afflicted with brain fever. Nine dead. But of those nine, only three displayed.

Hobbs. Found on Gideon’s property.

Gideon. Found on Islay’s land.

And now Isley. Discovered behind Chilton’s barn. _No wonder the fop is panicking._

_What is it that sets the three of you apart, binds you together, makes you deserving of such attention? _

Hobbs and Gideon exist now only in gruesome charcoal portraiture, their desiccated flesh decaying beneath the ground, away from the appalled fascination of the villagers - privacy bought at the highest price. But the sketches are unnecessary, the details etched in Will’s memory. Behind closed lids, he traces their shapes. Superimposes them on this new display - they fit almost perfectly. And with an imperceptible sigh, Will slips into the shadowed outline of their curator.

_You are alive when I impale you, your face etched with lines of agony, rivets that are an echo of the bark against which I have you pinned. In order to achieve the correct angle, it is necessary to break your neck. This is an important aesthetic. Pinioned by a stake driven through the base of your thick skull. Forced to hang your head in shame. I leave the rest of your body to hang, stripped bare, toes not quite brushing the ground. You are the very picture of disgrace, unworthy to touch the earth below. But I will make you fit for purpose. I set to work. A light and loving touch now, careful not to cut too deep as I carve sweeping ridges into calves, thighs, back, nape. And with gentle fingers I bed in young fungi, rich earth mingling with life’s blood. You are a vessel, made useful again._

Temporarily, at least. By tomorrow, all of this will have been dismantled, swept away - one more buried secret in a village overflowing with them. And Will, as he shudders back into his own skin, finds himself regretting the inevitable destruction. It seems like such a waste. _Still, there’s always Chilton… _

Reverend Crawford is waiting for him at the front of the house, all towering impatience.

‘At last,’ he mutters, throwing a wave of farewell to the couple on the porch as he hussles Will back towards the rye fields. ‘If I had had to listen to one more rendition of Greensleeves…’

‘God makes the back to bear the burden.’

Will’s flippancy is met with a stare of steel, but even as he’s mulling an apology something diverts his attention. He strides forward, catches a stalk between trailing fingers.

‘Reverend, where is the village grain store?’

***

‘Ergotism?’ Reverend Crawford looks uncomprehendingly from the grain barrel to Will.

‘It is a poison, Reverend.’ In his upturned palm, Will separates with his thumb the grains from the purplish-black tube-shaped interlopers. ‘Ergot of rye. The fruiting bodies infect the stalks and replace the grain. When consumed, they can cause hallucinations and convulsions such as those your people have been suffering from.’

‘We thought it part of the natural cycle of the plant. ’ The reverend shakes his head, confusion evident. ‘We have been baking it into our bread for years.’

‘Then you should have built up a natural immunity.’ Something is not adding up. Will stares down at the ergot-riddled grain. ‘Years, you say?’

‘Yes, although admittedly not in such quantity as this. The black seeds - ergot? - have this year almost equalled the rye grain in number.’

‘That could certainly account for the severity of symptoms.’

‘And the bodies?’ Reverend Crawford’s gaze is direct. ‘If you have a theory, Mr Graham, I would that you would share it with me.’

‘I have - questions.’ Will evades those shrewd eyes, already mentally making preparations for the encounter he knows cannot be put off any longer. ‘If and when I find the answers, you will be the first to know.’ He tips the infected grain back into the barrel. ‘This must all be destroyed. With luck, there will be some fields yet untainted.’

‘And if not? We must feed our families, Mr Graham.’

‘Potato crops. Root vegetables. They should be safe enough.’

If this is what he suspects...

***

‘I thought about you. All the time. Heard your voice in my dreams for weeks afterwards. Months. Until it faded and I cursed myself for a foolish child.’ Will lies prone on the ground, voice soft, eyes lidded. Scrunches his toes in the leaf-strewn grass. Stripped of all but shirt and breeches, he stretches limbs now pleasantly loose. ‘And then, so many years later, to hear you again... And I knew you wanted me back. Except here I am and still I can only hear you. Are you, after all, only in my head?’

‘Will.’ A caress of sound, at once comforting and reproachful.

He huffs, a breath of frustration. Opens his eyes, blinking at the sun-sparked landscape. Everything is so sharp, so clear.

‘No. No more _Will_. I need to see you. Talk to you. I have to _know_.’ He is met with silence. ‘If you can speak, you can take form. No more games. Show me.’

The silence stretches until Will is convinced the entity has gone. If, that is, it was ever there. What is real and what is illusion, conjured by honey-drenched mushrooms, he cannot tell. Not while the potent sweetness sings in his veins.

And then a brightening. The ground shudders. Will sits bolt upright, pulse pounding. Something is emerging.

_Is this delirium?_

The scene before him shifts, fragments - a kaleidoscope of colours that melt, bleed, blur. Separate, spin, then merge again as the _something_ pushes up through the earth, rich soil crumbling and falling from it like dark confetti. Root-tangled, a figure in profile, awash in golden light. Adorned in scalloped frills of fungus, bejewelled. At first glance, human. Yet decidedly _other._

A perfume drifts on the air that pulls Will forward until he’s crouching on hands and knees. Scenting. Keening. Sun-warmed moss and the sweet decay of leaves. Water-soaked stone. Buds tacky with sap. Overripe peaches.

‘There you are.’ Softly.

Eyes of blood-washed bark snap open as the entity unbends. _Unfurls_. Its - _his_ \- movements are balletic, hypnotic. Silhouetted, his face is all sharp contours - cheekbones, nose, jawline. His arms sweep outward like wings, fingers flexing talon-sharp nails, dripping darkly. It looks… _like blood in moonlight_. For an instant he is utterly still, like statuary. Then he turns his head. And his lips part in a slash of a smile.

‘Will.’

The entity extends one arm, points, then crooks his forefinger, sending flecks of pearlescent black powder floating into the air. Will rocks back on his heels and reads sharp displeasure at the perceived rejection. But there is no countermove to force closeness.

_I do have some power, then._

‘The deaths - the tableaux.’ Will watches him carefully through the onyx-tinted haze. ‘Did you do that?’

A considering head tilt.

Will presses on. ‘Are you responsible?’

Lips curve upwards. Sly. _Smug_. And before _he_ utters a word, Will knows.

‘Of course you are.’ Stupid even to ask. ‘I saw it - saw _you_ in each one. The way you made them part of the earth. Claimed them.’

‘But not as I claimed you.’

That voice, unmuffled, is velvet against Will’s skin, and he shivers.

‘No.’

‘You admired them?’ A graceful turn, face-on. Filtered light licks across defined musculature and Will endeavours not to stare. Not to dip his gaze.

‘I - understood them. What you were doing with them.’

‘What. Not why.’

‘Will you tell me why?’

A pause as lips purse, a perfect bow. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You are very beautiful.’ Will’s voice is husky, the sentiment squeezed out of him. He wants. He wants so much to...

‘Touch me.’

His breath stutters. ‘That would be foolish, given what I know.’

Even so, he rises slowly; pads on bare feet across the forest floor, to stand before the glimmering, shimmering creature. Monster. Man. Reaches out but hesitates.

‘Tell me your name.’

Eyes glitter red-black. ‘You may call me Hannibal.’

Will’s brow crinkles as a memory stirs. But it remains elusive.

‘How did you come to be?’

‘I… happened. Everything is connected, Will. You and I. Past and future.’

‘And now.’ Will’s eyes flick upwards, almost shyly.

‘And now.’ A single dissonant note. Melancholy. It dies away. ‘Would you like to see what I see, Will? Be with me, behind the veil?’

‘Yes.’ Heart thumping. ‘Please.’

That shark’s smile again. ‘Then touch me.’

At the first press of Will’s palm against Hannibal’s chest, he draws a swift inhaled breath..

‘Your heart is beating.’

‘Is it?’ A beat. ‘Close your eyes, Will. _See_.’

Darkness at first, then pinpricks of red behind his lids. They spread like watercolour paint on parchment, creeping outwards, taking shape.

Isley to Gideon to Hobbs. Last to first. And… a fourth. Not Chilton - no vision of a future horror, but of a tunicked man with dark hair tied back, sharp cheekbones bloodied and bruised, a rope around his neck, tightening as he stares with accusing eyes _of blood-washed bark_.

A trickle of ice down Will’s spine. ‘Was that you?’

‘In a sense.’ A hand covers his. ‘See, Will.’

The haunting figure fades but its outline lingers: gold, silk-like threads that twist and meld into a gleaming patchwork. Mycelia, the architects of existence. And flowering from this network of membranes, a myriad of hues - mushrooms of every shape, exotic bursts of colour such as Will has never seen. Beauty from destruction.

HIs eyes open. Fasten on Hannibal’s. ‘Isley and the others - you appropriated them. Fashioned them to your design.’

‘I did. Why?’

His thumb brushes absently across warm skin. _Everything is connected_. ‘They are linked by destruction.’

‘The devil is in the details. How?’

‘Landowners. Clearing forests, denuding the land.’

A hiss. ‘Yes.’

Will slides his hand from beneath Hannibal’s, careful to avoid the sharp talons. Reaches to cup the monster’s jaw.

‘Why start with Hobbs?’

Hannibal’s lip curls. ‘Bad seed.’

‘His family wronged you? Why not deal with them?’

‘It takes time to cultivate revenge.’

Will ponders this for a moment. ‘And the madness? The villagers?’

‘They pollute and ruin with their avarice and petty squabbles and grasping for land.’ Every word drips contempt.

Will looks at him steadily. ‘Will you stop?’

‘Would you ask me to?’ All stiffness and pride.

Will knows what his answer _should _be.

‘No.’

A look passes between them. Recognition and acceptance. With a gentle tug, Will pulls Hannibal’s head down until their lips are almost touching.

‘I want to taste you.’

‘But you are afraid.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do not be. I have waited for you to return, Will. Not for the world would I injure you.’

Hannibal’s breath is honeyed. Will darts out his tongue, swipes across that pout of an upper lip. When Hannibal parts his lips on a sigh, Will slips inside. Winds his arms up around his monster’s neck and plunges deep. Crushes close, a moan tearing free as his clothed cock rubs against Hannibal’s naked, straining hardness. It is the same desperate wanting that had him clawing the ground at sixteen. When he feels talons tracing the curve of his backside, he shudders.

‘Do it.’

How easily thick cloth is shredded. After the first few rips, Will lends a hand, mindful that he cannot return to the village in rags. Pushes the breeches off the rest of the way and hauls his shirt off over his head. Hannibal watches - ravages with his eyes. Will slides to his knees. Cups Hannibal’s cock with a trembling hand. Looks up, imploring. Hannibal smirks.

‘Taste.’

It is sticky peach-sweetness on his tongue. He laps and sucks, greedy for the preternatural sounds he is wrenching from the monster above him. Feeds hungrily, desperately, until he is hauled up into Hannibal’s arms again. They devour each other, tongue to tongue. Fall together to the forest floor, writhing as one creature. With a growl, Hannibal pins Will to the ground. Scenting and licking - the sensitive skin of his neck, collarbone, nipples, the dip of his waist, hipbone, inner thigh, the arch of his foot. Will is crying, begging, when finally Hannibal breathes over his swollen cock, takes it deep, suckles mercilessly. Will trails his fingers through the stickiness pooling on his belly from Hannibal’s dripping cock, reaches behind and opens himself with reckless haste. The burn brings tears to his eyes. Hannibal rears up over him, grasps his hips, lifts and penetrates with a snarl. The pain is exquisite. Will arches into it, gasps as Hannibal withdraws slowly and thrusts again, again. Pleasure swells with each brush against that tender bud within. He tightens and clings, mouths kisses against Hannibal’s jaw. They are locked, sealed, melded. They are one. Will comes with a shout, face buried in Hannibal’s neck. His monster follows quickly, pumping hot seed into Will’s belly. And then they are sinking. Into the earth, into each other. Floating in a cloud of satiation, Will fights off slumber.

Slurs a question. ‘Can you stay?’ The silence clenches his stomach. ‘I see.’ Except he doesn’t. ‘I thought you were not going to stop.’

‘Will.’ There is a marked tenderness in eyes of reddish brown. ‘It is as I have said.’

‘Everything is connected?’

‘And everything evolves.’

At this, Will can only look at him in wonder. ‘What marvellous thing could _you _evolve into?’

Hannibal’s chuckle rumbles into Will’s chest. He smiles sleepily, nudges close again, drifts off.

***

Waking clear-eyed and alone is not the hardest part. Nor is fending off Reverend Crawford’s interrogations about where Will has been. It is the dreams that shatter him, that burst out of him in sobbing desolation. Especially after he weakens, takes the mushrooms, returns to the forest and meets only emptiness. He doesn’t try again. Not after Stammets is struck down with the madness; not even after Chilton is discovered arranged in a neat ring around Bertrand Davies’ well. But that touch of whimsy - that hint of something _new_ \- prompts Will to delve into the village archives. He’s aided by a dim recollection of a story his father once told him; and after several days he finds a pamphlet, yellowed and faded. It leads him to the churchyard, to the furthest corner where moss and ivy have laid their claim. To a grave which is covered in a latticed network of white that Will recognises immediately as mycelium; and to a chipped, lopsided stone of grey granite, the writing upon which is faded but still readable.

_Here doth lye Hannibal Lecter, belov’d sonne of Lukas and Simonetta. Taken from this lyf in the year 1610._

Pamphlet crumpled in his fist, Will bows his head and stands motionless until the sun dips and shadows lengthen.

‘Do you know what happened to him?’

A voice of rough velvet. Peach scent infusing the air.

Grin at the ready, Will turns. Freezes when he sees a stranger with his monster’s face, dressed smartly in doublet and breeches of russet wool, shapely legs encased in black stockings, feet clad in black shoes with daring gold buckles. No, not his monster. _Just another fop_.

‘He was hanged for murder.’ HIs voice is flat with disappointment.

‘The devil is in the details. What are you leaving out?’

A sharp inhale. His incredulous gaze is met with one of calm. It is achingly familiar. Wary, hopeful, Will plays along.

‘The day after his execution, his supposed victim Abigail Hobbs was found alive in her father’s attic. He had framed Lecter, probably because his land was adjacent and a condemned man’s property could be bought for a song.’

Something savage flares briefly behind that civilised veneer. ‘Abigail Hobbs is dead. Long live Abigail Hobbs?’

‘Something like that.’ Will cannot tear his eyes away. ‘The father, Garret Jacob Hobbs, confessed to trafficking with the devil and was spared. Spent a few months in jail.’

‘While Lukas and Simonetta Lecter moved back to Lithuania in grief and ignominy.’

‘Their son was pardoned posthumously.’

‘Only in the eyes of the law. Hobbs claimed nefarious influence on the part of Lecter. Many believed him.’

Will squats by the stone and runs his fingertips over the engraved date. ‘Eighty years of injustice.’ His voice is heavy with sadness. ‘Only now are the bodies dropping like breadcrumbs.’

A contemplative hum. ‘It takes time to cultivate revenge.’

Choked by emotion, Will stands. ‘Tell me your name.’

A ghost of a smile and an outstretched hand. ‘Doctor Lecter. But you may call me Hannibal.’

The world tilts and only rights itself again when Will takes the proffered hand. ‘Hannibal?’

Doctor Lecter’s tone teases deliciously. ‘A family name. This poor soul was my great-grandfather.’

One mystery solved. The other...

‘I knew another Hannibal.’ Will’s voice is confessional-soft. ‘Encountered him first when I was a boy.’ Pins Hannibal with a narrow stare. ‘But I think you knew that already.’

Their hands part slowly.

Hannibal bends to trail a hand across the mycelial network that covers the grave like a veil. ‘There are some mysteries that can never be fully explained. I dreamed of you, Will. For years. And when first I landed on these shores, I began to have visions. Of a version of myself that lived in creeping darkness. A being filled with rage for an injustice never righted. As if nature herself had decided to lend a hand to a soul in torment. Patterned from the original a saviour and gave it life.’ His eyes glow as he rises to snare Will with his gaze. ‘I saw what it did to those worthless men, felt its pleasure as if it was my own. And then, a week since, in the forest…’

‘You were - part of that?’ Will flushes fiercely.

‘More observer than participant, sadly.’

And oh, there is no mistaking the wicked, wanting gleam in hooded eyes.

‘Is he - is he gone?’

A warm hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes. ‘That form was not sustainable. Besides,’ he adds with an enigmatic smile, ‘_I_ am here now.’

As, Will suspects, Mr Davies discovered to his cost. _Everything evolves._

‘How came you to be here, _Hann_ibal?’

Will fancies that the doctor’s breath hitches at the drawled emphasis.

‘I took passage from Europe several months ago, after my parents’ deaths. My inheritance bought me a comfortable berth, and you have no surfeit of medical men.’

‘Certainly not around here.’ Will’s eyes shine mischief. An unspoken invitation to masquerade. ‘It happens that our sole doctor fell victim to a strange malady just days ago.’

The doctor’s lips twitch. ‘So I hear. The Governor of Virginia has offered me the post of physician in Wolf Trap.’

‘What excellent timing.’ It’s hard to sound dry when joy is bubbling up inside. ‘You might consider looking into the recent happenings. Whoever is able to solve the mystery would doubtless earn the lifelong gratitude of the entire village.’

‘Investigate madness and murder? An intriguing prospect.’ Eyes of blood-washed bark look deep into his. ‘Perhaps you might assist me. Reverend Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters.’

‘You might say that.’ Darts hims a coy glance.

Hannibal takes a step closer, intent. ‘Will you? Stay with me?’

A tremor runs through Will. Their eyes lock. Recognition and acceptance. _Everything is connected and everything evolves. _However _they_ are connected and whatever they are destined to become, Will has only one answer. He leans in and whispers it against Hannibal’s lips.

‘Where else would I go?’

**Author's Note:**

> The impaling of Hannibal's victims is inspired by the ordeal that Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, an insect-pathogenic fungus, puts tropical ants through. Look up 'zombie ant fungus' and you'll see what I mean. It's work that Hannibal would be proud of!


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